Quinn Fabray presents: 10 Things I Hate About You
by larkxsong
Summary: She never hated him. Because she's loved him all along. Not even close... Not even a little bit... Not even at all... Fabrevans oneshot to the poem "10 Things I Hate About You". Complete.


_So I was watching 10 Things I Hate About You and this randomly happened. I have not abandoned my fanfics. I'm sorry about the lack of updates. I had writer's block and personal issues. But now that I'm back in the groove, I will update soon. _

_For now, please enjoy this. And now, without further ado..._

**Quinn Fabray presents: _10 Things I Hate About You (Sam Evans) _**

* * *

><p><em>I hate the way you talk to me,<em>

"Quinn."

That voice should not have pierced her soul. That voice should not have made her heart skip a beat. That voice should most definitely _not_ make her knees go weak. Yet still, the second she heard Sam Evans' voice calling down the hallway, all Quinn could do was stop and suck in a breath, the deep voice filling her ears and turning her limbs to jelly. Turning to face him, she could only raise her brow in a questioning fashion. Not because he wasn't worth words, but because she couldn't muster a strong enough voice when he grinned at her like that.

"Hey. Did you know today's Friday?" he always speaks this way, pointing out obvious things, and always earns a gentle rolling of the eye. Maybe he likes it, she often wonders. Maybe a lot.

"Yes, I know it's Friday. What's so special about that?" she asks, looking up at him with a curious glance.

"Nothing," he answers, "Just wanted an excuse to talk to you." His smile is large and cute, and he spares her a chance to stare at it before the bell rings and he's escaping her.

She hates the way he talks to her, how it makes her heart flutter in glee.

* * *

><p><em>And the way you cut your hair.<em>

"You need a haircut," she comments, looking at him for a long moment. His blonde locks have grown and his bangs cover his eyes. She knows it irritates him, why else would he be constantly jerking his head to the side and blowing at his forehead.

With a bemused expression, he declares, "If you say so, I think I will." She flinches in her spot, confused with the look on his face, but ignores it completely, before adding, "Maybe get a new look too." He only nods, smiling to himself.

School comes the next day and Quinn can only stare with wide eyes as he strolls in, chin up and head held high, a shorter new style, with side sweeping bangs, styled over his head and looking so damn great.

"How do I look?" he asks, and she almost answers, "Gorgeous, perfect, sexy, beautiful".

But Quinn catches herself and shrugs, turning to hide her smirk as she says, "Not bad, Evans," and walks away.

She hates the way he cuts his hair, how, with any style, he's just so damn attractive.

* * *

><p><em>I hate the way you drive my car,<em>

"Let me."

Quinn can only sigh when she hears the tone of his voice, sees the way he reaches for her keys and unlocks the car. She would normally fight him, take her keys back and shove him away. But she doesn't. She never does, really. She lets him be the gentleman and hold the passenger's door to _her_ car open, lets him play chauffer because it's hard to deny that face. "Just this once," she mutters, sliding into the car, though, really, this is the third time. He just smiles knowingly before closing the door and walking around to the driver's side.

Key in the ignition, he expertly exits the school parking lot after glee, taking the long way to her house and turning the radio up as a Bieber song comes on. Obnoxious singing that should annoy her fills the car, but she can only blush and look away, hiding the smile tugging at her lips as he sings. He's always like this, so laid back and easy, so in control.

She hates how he drives her car home, how he drives in the complete opposite direction of his home and jogs all the way home just to spend an extra few minutes with her. She can't stand how he makes her smile with these silly notions.

* * *

><p><em>I hate it when you stare.<em>

She's too distracted with Chemistry to realize it at first, but after a while it's not easy to ignore that feeling you're being watched. Barely glancing threw her lashes and she sees him, elbow on the table and head resting against his palm, ignoring the Calculus homework on the table and smiling dreamily at her. She tries to conceal herself but can feel the heat rising to her cheeks. Looking away, she mumbles, "Stop staring at me like that."

He can only chuckle, because Sam Evans finds her so damn amusing half the time. Which irritates her beyond belief, but it bothers her more that, no more than two minutes later, she can feel his gaze fixed on her again. And this time he earns a smile and redder cheeks.

"Why do you look at me like that? And why do you keep staring at me?" she finally asks, setting her pencil down and crossing her arms over the desk.

Looking down even a moment, Sam fiddles with his pencil before lifting his gaze to her. "Because you're beautiful," he answers. "And I don't want to miss a second of your beauty."

She hates it when he stares at her, how he makes her feel like the only thing on Earth.

* * *

><p><em>I hate your big dumb combat boots,<em>

She hisses in pain for maybe the seventh time since they started the number. She can already hear Santana snickering in the background, and Rachel claiming she and Finn could do better. But Quinn can't think about them. Sectionals are a week away and she's stuck with Sam Evans, the boy with two left feet, two left feet shoved in large boots that keep stepping on her little toes.

"Sorry," he pathetically says, blushing and looking down as Mr. Schue tells everyone to calm down. The duet partners need to learn and practice for the big event. And Sam needs to seriously learn his steps.

She only spares him a glare before directing her attention back to their curly haired director. Hearing the steps once more, Quinn quickly follows the instruction and does perfectly. But then it happens again, and Quinn is yelping in pain because Sam's large booted foot has once more landed on her toes And once more, Sam is blushing embarrassed and mumbling his sorry's. She should shout, she should glare—she should do anything to make him quiver in those huge boots he insists on wearing some days to school. But she can't. Because later "Footloose" is blasting through the choir room and he's kicking them off and dancing around, somehow managing to look like a huge idiot and the cutest thing in the world at the same time. She can only just smile at him.

But still, she hates his big dumb combat boots, and how adorable he is stomping around in them.

* * *

><p><em>And the way you read my mind.<em>

"What's wrong?" he asks, concern written all over his handsome face. She normally wouldn't let someone see her upset, much less crying. But she can't hide from him. Something about him just makes it hard to keep her emotions a secret. While to everyone else she's a mystery, to him she's an open book—script bold and clear to read, easily deciphered by his mind, and she absolutely positively _despises_ how well he can read her.

"Nothing," she mumbles, barely managing to hide the sniffle as she blinks and walks away. She's hugging her books to her chest and tugging her Cheerio's jacket tighter around her, but slightly to distract from the jagged movements of her chest falling and rising with her uneven breathes. There's still a hitch in her throat.

"Don't lie to me," he says, stepping before her and nearly causing her to run into his hard chest. When was she staring at the ground? She can hear his breathing, feeling his body close and his breath against her forehead. Wintery and comforting, the smell of cool mint filling her senses and sending tingles down her spine in the most exciting of ways. She doesn't lift her gaze to him, not until she hears him say, "I know you better than you give me credit for, you know."

When her eyes meet his, she sees something oddly different in his emerald eyes that in anyone else's concerned eyes. She sees confusion as well as a knowing look, like he knows what she's hiding but wants her to explain. She can only shrug and look away, claiming, "I'm fine."

But she can't escape him. The second she tries to, his strong hands are grasping her shoulders and she swears he's weak in his touch. Did her knees buckle? If they did, it didn't matter. She's secure because he's holding her and she can't do anything but stare into his eyes and let him read her every thought.

"No, you're not," he says. "I can tell… I can see it in your eyes."

She hates the way he reads her mind, how he can read her every secret and hidden thought just by looking in her eyes. He gets her better than anyone, and boy does she despise that.

* * *

><p><em>I hate you so much it makes me sick,<em>

_It even makes me rhyme._

There should be a pill for this, she decides. That feeling when just a glance causes your heart to skip a beat and your lungs to constrict and keep you from taking even the smallest breath. Damn that Samuel Evans for causing these reactions from her every moment. Damn him for causing this reaction each time he kisses her. She should not be so hooked up on a guy, much less him.

She's so hooked up on him that she lets him do anything. She lets him grab her books from her and walk her to class. She lets him reach for her hand whenever they're together. She even lets him kiss her in the hallways—in _public_.

He has her hook, line, and sinker. And she _hates_ him for it.

"I hate you," she says one day, blinking when she realizes she actually voices it.

He only smiles, a rumble of chuckles echoing in his chest. That causes an irritating feeling in the pit of her stomach and she can't help but knit her brow in frustration as he flashes that adorable grin, the one that showcases those pearly whites and makes those pouty pink lips so damn inviting. "Sorry," he teases in response, leaning in to kiss her.

The feeling in her—the quickening of her heart beat until it stops all together for a split second, the shaking in her joints, the bolts of cool tingles racing along the length of her spine, back and forth, and the sharp breath that gets caught in her throat—can only be described with one word—_sickening. _

"You make me sick—"

"—I want you and I'm hatin' it."

She blushes when she realizes she quotes a Pink song, and glares when his only response is to throw his head back and laugh.

She hates that she hates him so much it makes her sick, but he's so cute he's got her flustered and rhyming. Hates it, hates it, hates it.

* * *

><p><em>I hate the way you're always right,<em>

"No, you're wrong," she says, a spark of anger starting in her chest. "Santana's house is on New Haven—I think I would know this, Sam. I've known her my whole life and have been to her house _at least_ ten million times." She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest as he swerves down the roads of Lima, Ohio. How hard can it be to find the Latina's home anyway? Quinn knows where she's going and Lima's not that large. She's the girl, she has the better sense of direction, naturally. So why is he doubting her and ignoring her directions?

"I'm telling you, she and her family moved to the other side of town," he says, looking at the street names whenever his headlights illuminate them. It's well after eight and they are almost an hour late.

She scoffs, but doesn't say a word. She's beyond irritated to even bark back and only looks out the window. After a long moment, she says, "She's lived in the same house her whole life Sam. It's the corner one on New Haven."

She can already imagine his smile as he decides to humor her and drives back in the other direction and towards New Haven Road. Twisting down the road, she observes the houses until pointing out the one she _insists_ is Santana's.

"Funny," Sam sighs, walking up the narrow sidewalk with her and squeezing her hand. "For a house where a party's happening, it's awfully quiet," he comments, as they stand before the house, silent with all the lights off. And, for a quick moment, she feels her cheeks go hot with embarrassment as she realizes he may in fact be right.

The text message she just receives saying, _"Q, forgot to send you my new home address. xSantana"_ could also be helping with the humiliation.

When they're back in the car, she can't look at him. Because her cheeks are red as a cherry and he's too busy laughing to say anything.

And she absolutely hates that, much like other times, he was totally right this time. Especially the adorable grin that he keeps on his face after disproving _the_ Quinn Fabray.

* * *

><p><em>I hate it when you lie.<em>

"Why did Santana talk to you?" she asks, holding in her emotions when she already sees the guilty expression on his face. She waits; tapping her toe against the linoleum floor, as he orders the contents of his locker before shutting it and shouldering his backpack, ready to leave school for holiday.

She is impatient for his answer and is absolutely frustrated when his only response is a quick, "Nothing," before he's walking in the opposite direction, shoulders tense in that way that means Sam Evans is lying to her and feeling bad. A spark of irritation fills her and she quickly follows after him.

"You're lying," she quickly accuses, though she knows she's right. She can see it in the way he avoids her eyes.

"Why do you say that?" he asks dully, and she narrows her eyes at the sigh of his Adam's apple bobbing. Nervous swallowing is always a bad sign. Her eyes drop slightly and she sees him swiping his palms over his pant leg. Sweaty palms, an even worse sign.

"You always look at me when we talk. The only times you don't, you're lying," she mutters, looking down a brief moment. Because, for a small instant, Quinn's hurt he doesn't want to tell her the truth.

She hears the squeak of his heels and suddenly he's standing right in front of her, sad looking green eyes fixated on her face. She blinks to hold herself in and looks right at him, her expression blank and emotionless, but her lips trembling and her eyes glassy.

His eyes are empty. "She just complimented me on my huge lips. You know, asked me to open a pickle jar for her later. Same old stuff," he answers before kissing her cheek and walking away, claiming he "needs to hurry home."

Quinn stays still because she doesn't believe him. It doesn't help that Santana's smirking and winking at the blonde boy when he walks away, his head hung low like he just committed a horrific crime and can't quite believe it.

Chin up, she leaves school without saying a word to anyone else, but the moment she's home, she's sobbing into her pillow.

She hates it when he lies to her, how her heart breaks at the simple act.

* * *

><p><em>I hate it when you make me laugh,<em>

"These are not the droids you're looking for."

Her eyebrow twitches, and she tries _desperately_ to keep her face straight. Her expression screams "what is wrong with you?"—eyes wide and judging and her eyebrow lifted just a smidge. But if one examined her closely, they would see the corners of her lips twitching in desperation to form a smile and for a giggle to escape her. Can anyone blame her though?

Sam Evans is sitting across from her at Breadstix, in their usual booth. And as Quinn toys with one of the toasted sticks, the boy's large lips are pursed and he's making funny faces as he tries to impress her with some random impersonation.

"I don't even know where that's from," she responds, which is a lie because he has made her watch all six Star Wars movies in a row in payback for him having to endure six hours of Jane Austen and her swooning over Colin Firth's smoldering Mr. Darcy. That did come with something good for him though, because the second Sam uttered "you have bewitched me body and soul," the movie was long forgotten and their lips were occupied with one another. Still, she refuses to give into his little game and let him know how cute he really is.

"Come on," he says, "That was my Obi Wan impression." She can tell from the tone of voice and face that he's brought Matthew McConaghuey with them to dinner tonight. Who else is going to visit her this evening, she wonders.

Still, she looks back at him blankly.

"You are a tough crowd," he chuckles, and, for a moment, she thinks he's given up… That is until he's pulling an Urkle on her after arriving back from the bathroom. She stares at him, expecting Sam Evans on the date, when he busts out a perfect Steve Urkle voice she has never heard before and says, the very last lines from "family Matters", "Do I get a welcome home kiss?"

He doesn't get the kiss, but what he does get is a red faced Quinn Fabray in a fit of giggles and tears that it's a whole ten minutes before the waiter can figure out what the laughing blonde wants for dinner.

As she sits there embarrassed, Quinn can't help but hate him for how he makes her laugh like no one else has ever managed.

* * *

><p><em>Even worse when you make me cry.<em>

She's shifting in her chair, and it isn't because she's uncomfortable. Well, not completely. After all, how else should she feel when Finn is burning holes into the back of her head with long curious stares and Sam Evans is standing before the whole of Glee Club, guitar strapped over his shoulder, demanding everyone's attention. It's been a week since he showed up with Santana practically laying on his lap and messing with his hair—Hair that _she_ should be the only one to mess with. One week and he's singing another song, a lot more romantic than Justin Bieber.

But this song isn't for her.

How many times as she heard Sam sing Aerosmith's "Don't Wanna Miss a Thing"? It was the first one he would play on his iPod, and he would sing every word, hit every note perfectly, and smile at her during those heart melting romantic lines. But he wasn't telling _her_ how he "doesn't wanna close his eyes" or "doesn't wanna fall asleep". Because she's not the one he's singing. This is for Santana. Santana, who's casting odd glances at Brittany.

This wasn't for her, yet Quinn was the most affected by it. She kept herself sitting straight, though. She attempted to keep herself from fidgeting, and kept her eyes glued on the blonde boy singing the song and smiling at Santana. Everything about the moment screamed "love". He was grinning at Santana. He was staring at just the Latina.

But why did his eyes have to look so moist and glassy? Why did he look so oddly fragile to her.

As the song came to a close, Quinn felt whatever was left of her broken and bruised heart shatter to a million tiny and unfixable pieces as those watery forest eyes landed on her, hearing him utter, "And I don't wanna miss a thing," in a shaky tenor as they shared a final glance.

And that's when she loses it. Because she can't stay and watch Santana get up and run into Sam's arms and practically eat his face off. She can't wait for Finn to burst out of his seat on a jealous rage because he didn't serenade his love interest but a damn bologna sandwich he found the other day—one he swore had Mother Teresa's face in the mold.

No. Because right now she was breaking apart and she needed to run. Barely sparing him a glance as she dashes out of the choir room, Quinn books it straight to the parking lot, ignoring the icy rain pounding against her hot face as she reaches her red bug, and locks herself inside, pouring her heart out in sobs as hot tears fall down her face.

She may have lost him, but he still made her cry. And nothing hurt more than knowing he wasn't going to be the one to kiss the tears away.

* * *

><p><em>I hate it when you're not around,<em>

Summer vacation's barely begun when Mercedes sends the text. All she manages to read is "Sam's moving" and she's already turning off Dudley Road and booking in towards the motel at the edge of town. Sam's family's been living there for a while now, and things weren't looking good. It was only logical that a job outside of town and a fresh new start would do wonders to the Evans family situation. Yet the thought of him being miles away, of not seeing him at school and in glee every day come fall shatters the girl.

Her life is barely being put back together. She's through with Finn and all her complicated feelings. She's even through with boys. Yet the thought of the mop head blonde boy disappearing for a long while drives her mad. Why should it? They've barely spoken since the break up. Sure, she was helping his family out for a bit, but then so was Rachel, and Mercedes, and everyone else in glee. Pretty soon they were back to not communicating.

He had no presence in her life and yet the thought of him completely gone killed her.

Pulling into the parking lot, she shuts off the engine and climbs out, quickly running towards the door she knows is his family's new home. But when she gets there and knocks, she's met with no answer. She doesn't even know how long she's been standing there knocking and waiting before a voice startles her.

"They left," a woman with a scratchy voice smoking a cigarette says.

Quinn blinks and stares at the woman a long moment before she manages an "Excuse me?"

The woman coughs, and it's a wonder why that horrible hacking isn't enough to get the woman to quit smoking. Lighting up another cig, she says, "The blonde family that lived there? With the boy with the funny lips? Yeah, they left. About twenty minutes ago. Filled a U-Haul and their only car and booked it out of Lima. Heard they were heading to Kentucky to restart their lives." She coughs before adding, "Guess you got the memo too late blondie."

If she said any more, Quinn misses it. Because she's already walking back to her car and sliding into the driver's seat. She drives away until she's back in her driveway. But she doesn't go inside. Instead, she sits there, gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles are snow white and there's a strain in her wrist.

Sam Evans is gone. No more of those devilishly adorable grins in the hallways. No more glances into those emerald green eyes. No more guppy face in glee club, singing Bieber and strumming a tune on his Fender.

He was gone, and he wasn't coming back.

And the thought, as well as the reality, of him not being around kills whatever is left in Quinn Fabray, leaving a dead soul in a pale and beat down shell.

* * *

><p><em>And the fact that you didn't call.<em>

Everyone's received word from him. Be it text message, facebook message, skype call or phone call. By halfway through vacation, when the glee club gets together for a camp out, everyone is animatedly discussing the many things about Sam. If you were wondering, he's adjusting well in Kentucky. He's got lots of friends on his block. He heard his school as a glee club. His job pays really really well. Oh, and he gets his own bedroom. Which is nice. But he still has to share a shower, which bothers him. They're all laughing because he admits his hair has faded. That's right, he's not a natural blonde. Not that we didn't know that already.

But everyone knows this now. Because he tells them. He talks to them all the time.

Everyone except Quinn, who is stuck wondering why he hasn't had the decency to call her.

Does he dislike her that much? Did she really hurt him that much? Or did he just forget? Can you really just forget the girl you practically proposed to?

It hurts. It hurts _a lot_. Because she's supposed to be his friend, his first love. Doesn't that count for anything? She cared about him. Yeah, she hurt him, but she cared. Isn't that enough for him to say something to her?

When it's her turn to speak, and Mercedes asks, "What'd he tell you?" all Quinn can respond with is a cold, "Nothing" and everyone grows silent. Because, really, they can all sense the pent up anger she's been hiding throughout the conversation.

That's when she gets up and leaves, because she can't sit there and listen anymore. Even if Rachel changed the subject to Nationals again, earing a collective groan from the group. She can't bring herself to care anymore. Because glee club always ends badly for her. She loses love, her life ends up ruined, and she can't be a part of that anymore.

And because glee club makes her think of _him_—and he didn't even try to call her.

So she hates him. Yeah, she despises his memory and existence. Because he should have called her.

She missed his voice.

* * *

><p><em>But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you,<em>

Sam Evans is her biggest problem. That boy ruins everything. First he comes in when her heart is unattainable and steals it from her. Then he carefully weaves a spot in her soul, puts a damn ring on her finger, and makes her life a whole ton of fluffy warm fuzzy moments. And for what? Only to give her the saddest puppy dog look, walk out of her life, not call her once, and suddenly pop back in.

She smiles and waves her red plastic cup when he sings for the glee club when surprising them before Sectionals. How can't she smile? He's right there, looking as gorgeous as ever with that new hair cut, those big stupid combat boots, that all knowing smile, and those bright green eyes reading her every thought. In a moment, he has her laughing, and silently crying, as well as feeling like the most happy girl in the world. He's there now, and that's all that matters.

And she wants him back. Because she treated him like crap, but she knows now that, despite everything, she doesn't hate him one bit.

She _loves_ him.

So when he rejects her offer, and gives her a small piece of advice, she doesn't throw a fit. Not even when she sees him try and grab Mercedes' hand later on. No, she can't. Because, once again, she doesn't hate him. She _loves_ him.

And she can't hate him for that. No… She can only hate herself. Because not once did she tell him.

* * *

><p><em>Not even close…<em>

And she can't hate him for smiling and watching Mercedes every second she's performing with trouble tones. Or for him being mesmerized by the chocolate diva as she sings before the glee club at Christmas. She can only love him more because then he's smiling at her, telling her he hopes she gets good things. Because she deserves it, right?

She hates herself, though. Because she doesn't deserve good things. She doesn't deserve_ him_ and he's all she wants.

And as the year goes by, and his eyes are only on Mercedes, she can't even try to hate him. She can't even try to blame the heartache on him, blame each tear shed each night on that Sam Evans. It doesn't matter how much he ignores her, how his emotional tears come Valentine's Day are for another.

Because she screwed this up. She lost him. And she can't hate him for that.

* * *

><p><em>Not even a little bit…<em>

But she most certainly can't say she hates him that day when she wakes up after a long coma, her body still numb to the pain from the accident, lost of feeling save for the feeling of something warm wrapped around her hand. No, she can't hate him when she sees the mess of dirty blonde hair resting on the bed beside her thigh, half his face pressed into his bicep, eyes closed and body gently rising and falling with each breath passed during his slumber. She can't hate Sam Evans for being the only one there beside her when she wakes up from the accident, feeling the hot pain begin in her limbs as she tries to move and wake him.

How could she hate him? Especially when his eyes open and out peaks that familiar flash of deep green that took her breath away the moment she wiped slushie from his face nearly two years ago? When he smiles like he's just been given the one thing he has ever wanted in his life. How can she be eternally mad at him, truly despise him as she did before, when he's right there with her and telling her he's so happy she's okay through tears?

She can't hate him. Not when he's saying, "I love you Quinn Fabray."

And it's then she realizes something, something she knew since the moment she saw Sam Evans but ignored time and time again.

She doesn't hate him. Not now. Not yesterday. Not a year ago. Not ever.

* * *

><p><em>Not even at all.<em>

She never hated him.

"I love you, Sam Evans."

Because she's loved him all along.

The End.

_Please review. :)_


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